Moulin Rouge!
by Allumettes
Summary: After a night of blessed debauchery at Paris' Moulin Rouge, Sasuke finds himself drawn back to the place by a pair of blue eyes. Thing is, he keeps hearing his father's voice in his head saying don't throw your life away dallying with a cancan dancer!
1. Chapter 1

**This fic is heavily inspired and influenced by Baz Luhrman's 'the Moulin Rouge' which is the most awesome movie ever made and anyone who's not seen it (I doubt there are many) should be fucking obliged. Anyway, I guess it's going to be a little shocking, prostitutes, opium and all the delicious moral corruption of fin-de-sciecle Paris, so consider yourself warned. **

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_Moulin Rouge_

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Paris, 1900,

***

A cat hurries away through the half dark and his coat shines a bright autumn brown as he passes the red-tinged windows of The Moulin Rouge. Sasuke is only momentarily distracted, because his sense are numbed by glorious absinthe and the drunken tugging and yelling from his friends lead him on.

Inside his head he hears his father's voice. _Don't waste your life rotting away in the gutters by the sinful brothels of Montmartre. Don't keep lusting after one of those whores until you've been leeched of every penny, every shred of dignity. Don't be fooled by the illusions that they cast in front of your eyes, for they're only meant to keep you from smelling that putrid scent of moral decay. _

Sasuke laughs, as he's done many times that evening, drunk on youth and alcohol and as much money to spend to last him a full week in here. Suigetsu hangs heavily on his arm and grins knowingly up at him, while rasping in his ear:

'You're not gonna believe your eyes.'

The latter stumbles onwards, hoarsely screaming out vulgar songs with Juugo, whose coat has gotten unbuttoned during the course of the evening, and whose waistband now hangs limply over one shoulder.

In front of them the doors are open, and music plays from the inside, loud enough for them to hear it, but still soft enough as to lure them in closer. There, on the doors it says in bold red letters: 'Moulin Rouge', as if people still need telling. Everyone who comes to these doors knows exactly what's behind them. It's where the rich and powerful come to play with the dark and beautiful creatures of the underworld.

Inside that becomes increasingly apparent. Through cleverly lit cavernous halls the guests come in, and as the music grows louder and louder the anticipation becomes a physical buzzing in the air. When those heavy golden door finally do open, Sasuke understands immediately why some men throw away everything for a night between these walls.

The room is high and grand and absolutely _filled _with people, all of them drinking, dancing, singing, flirting, laughing, sinning and living to their utmost ability. Suigetsu laughs high and loud in his ear as he screams with exultation. He joins the throbbing crowd at once, drags his friends along and floats to the bar, where the most exotic flowers bat their eyes and sell their smiles. Sasuke passes a pale, ivory creature that trails her inch-long red nails along his jaw and looks him up and down with catlike green eyes.

At the bar they spend a fortune on drinks and never minding the ridiculous prices, each order another shot of green fairy's magic.

Mizuki, the oldest member of their party bids them goodbye as he's spotted a girl he knows and most likely will end up sleeping with before the night is over. Suigetsu has already chatted up a couple of ladies and his special attention goes to a little pixy with blond curls and an orange mouth that glitters with rhinestones in the flickering light.

Sasuke downs the drink and with the sudden rush and burn he looks at the dancers differently. There is the rush of living and loving. They heave with the same communal, elated heartbeat. Though stoic by nature, when Suigetsu moves to the dance floor with his new blonde little demon and grabs Sasuke's hand, he who himself to be pulled along.

The music is all around them, as are the wide smiles, charcoaled eyes and red lips. He finds that the dancing is easier than it looked. The girls around him take over and he is pulled, twirled and pushed this way and that in the flow of people.

The dance seems to last endlessly, and it certainly does continue the greater part of the evening. There comes a change though, as the hours pass. Sultry violin replaces the jovial, exiting drums. The place is hot now, couples dance close even though the dance floor thins out.

Suigetsu leaves halfway through and when Juugo too is led away by a tall, black-haired, black-skinned temptress with lights for eyes, Sasuke, disentangling himself from a few girls, follows them out to the side. The candles are burning up, the lights are dimmed. He finds himself wandering around and when he passes a door, allows it to fall shut behind him, the music is considerably softened.

He's in a hallway, windowless and stuffy, with red carpet and wooden walls. It makes him think of theatres. As he stumbles down the corridor there appear some doors on his left side. Some are empty; Some are clearly used for maintenance only and some are locked. Sasuke presses his ear to one of the locked ones and blushes a bright red when he hears the distinct primal noises of love-making.

He staggers back ashamed and the vision in front of his eyes becomes at times blurry and disorienting. He crashes through another door noisily, it leads to another corridor, much the same, but filled with people. He sees a young man of barely twenty embrace passionately with a woman of twice his age. He stares at them and edges past.

People are looking at him now, laughing mouths and the strong smell of tobacco, and something else, engulfs him like a water. It makes his eyes tear up. He continues walking, unbalanced an leaning against the walls. He feels as if though all the alcohol he drank tonight is hitting his brain all at the same time. To his left a chocolate-coloured brunette with large doe-like eyes, pulls his face close. When she blinks she shows eyelids full of lavender coloured sparkles. She wants to kiss him but he lifts his head out of reach and pushes her away.

That's when his eyes pick out someone else in the hallway. The figure, back against a door, hands casually in the pockets of his black, fitted trousers, looks up at him from under his eyebrows, a knowing Cheshire smile on his lips.

'I don't think this one's up your ally, Odette.' he calls with a clear voice that reaches them over the thrumming of the music and the shrieking of the guests.

Sasuke squints to try and see past the smoke in the air. Everything's dulled now. The only points of focus are the big, kohl enveloped, blue eyes of that boy who is slowly but surely making his way towards them now. Up close he can see the sweat dampened peaks of blond hair and the shine to his shirt, red and white like a candy cane.

'Why don't you come with me?' The boy whispers, close to his ear, and hands already in his and pulling.

Completely bereft of will or sense Sasuke can only follow. As they float through many more corridors and meet many more people, among whom a girl who looks barely fifteen with skin painted a saturated shade of blue and big black eyes.

The music grows fainter, however, and the corridors darker. The boy, his only light, his only guide through the maze, faces him. He bridges the distance and looks at him from breathtakingly close. He inspects Sasuke's eyes and seems to be looking for something. He finds whatever it is, smiles and opens the door with his free hand, then tugs Sasuke closer to him, inside.

The room is dark for a moment, but the boy has a light on in no time at all. He asks something. Sasuke can't hear and shakes his head. He's so hot, but for some reason, can't feel his toes. He looks down and staggers again, almost loosing his footing.

The boy laughs now, and this Sasuke can hear, clear as a bell. Hands descend upon him and quickly unbutton his jacket. He closes his eyes and his nose picks up the smell of incense and flowers and tobacco and the smoke of the flickering flame.

He is pushed down on the bed, small but with a soft mattress that would tend to swallow you whole when you lie down in it. He allows himself to be undressed like a child. He notices the boy rummaging around in the pockets of his jacket. After that it's his waistband, shirts, shoes, socks, trousers. He keeps heavy-lidded eyes on the creature, blond and smiling, with expert hands and a sweet alcoholic breath. When he's finally naked, or maybe close to it, he feels himself be pushed down into the sheets. His eyes close again. He traces hands, a face, a bare stomach.

It's all a dream. A sparkling dream. He imagines himself in his own bed at home, in the cold room in the attic where no fire ever burns. In front of his eyes it's dark and red and his nose is filled with foreign, exotic scents. The hands hold him and wring pleasure out of him. He breathes deeply, content and relaxed as he's never felt before. Outside it may be raining, but all thoughts of outside are gone. The concept doesn't exist anymore. Neither do Mizuki or Suigetsu or Juugo. There's only this burrowed world of delight and senses.

It's over soon, but satisfied as he is, after the breathing slows and a comforter is draped over him, almost tenderly, he sleeps instantly. Sinking back into real dreams.

***

Naruto sits in the reed chair by the bedside, counting the money. He glances over at the figure on the bed, exhausted no doubt. Green as grass, probably. He sniggers softly and curls up a little, careful not to make too much noise. He looks the closed, glossy eyelids and the full, slightly open mouth, kissed to healthy redness by yours truly. He sighs. He could have done a whole lot worse.

He shakes his head and sniggers again. Easy money. He picks off about half of the total fee (which is too much really, considered to what he did, but it was too much 'help yourself' for Naruto to resist) and sticks the other half in his coat pocket.

Then he gets up, and leaves the room in his underwear, clothes under one arm. He'll need to wash them later. It's very early in the morning, just before dawn and the corridors are empty. Or at least, as empty as they get in the Moulin Rouge, where you're never really alone. He nods to a couple of girls he knows, scantily clad as well, counting money, smoking cigarettes, chatting with each other. No one's fazed at Naruto's appearance.

He makes his way through the labyrinth easily. To him it's home and he'd be able to find his way in the dark. He climbs a couple of narrow, wooden stairs until he's at his floor. Some of the well-off prostitutes live outside the Moulin Rouge, and only come in at night, others, less well-off roam the streets for money and hang out outside the doors, desperate to share its grandeur and luxury.

He lives here, pays his share to keep up maintenance and keeps a little for personal spending. Clothes, if not made or borrowed, have to be bought by yourself. The same with make-up. Breakfast too is excluded, although nobody really eats breakfast here, due to the slightly unorthodox way of living... Dinner however, is supplied by the chefs of the neighbouring restaurants, who've made a deal with the brothel and come in every night to cook in the kitchens. In Montmartre nobody's fazed, ever, it's all business.

In the slightly lighter wooden hallways Naruto runs into a permanently drunk Jiraiya. He slips him his half of the money and makes him promise not to forget about it. A little further, by the room next to his, he knocks on the door. He gets no answer but pushes it open anyway to see Kakashi lie on his bed. He's not a whore, more like a janitor, looks like shit and smells like opium. His one visible eye is red and half-closed, focused on something in the distance, a drug induced dream.

Naruto allows the door to fall shut behind him and the sound is enough to make Kakashi stir and look at him momentarily. He smiles faintly. Naruto returns the gesture and falls down on the bed next to him. He leans his back against the wall and reaches out for the cigarette that rests between Kakashi's fingers. Naruto takes a lung full of glorious, numbing, brightening, softening opium smoke and closes his eyes again.

He smokes until sunrise and will probably sleep through most of the morning and afternoon. As long as he wakes up before nightfall, to have good meal, paint his eyes again, dress up and prepare for another night of the same. He likes to see himself as one of the lucky ones. He remembers the time before the Moulin Rouge, when he was poor, destitute, reduced to nothing but the childish clinging to life, making money in alleys and getting beaten for it.

It was Orochimaru who saved him and took him to the Moulin Rouge, bar, nightclub and bordello, the most rotten place you'll find in Paris. No healthy environment to a ten year-old, but at least it was warm, and there was a bed for him, and he didn't have to start earning his living right away.

'_You are someone I can use,_' he remembers him saying as he cupped his face and tilted his chin. '_Blue eyes, blond hair, the face of an angel, the mouth of a devil…promising.' _

Naruto didn't know what he meant then. He does now, when he looks in the mirror. He's not very big and has never been a bouncer, but he has other talents. He'll survive, he'll earn his share. If anything, he's a hard worker.

He never realised what he gave up that day he first set foot in the Moulin Rouge. He still doesn't, but maybe, during the course of this last, hot summer, he may.

***

Sasuke wakes to a god-almighty hangover of truly biblical proportions. He imagines his father's face yelling at him and the tiny droplets of spit that would fall of his lips when he got too exited. He groans. Merciful, yellow sunlight pours in through the only, tiny, round window in the wall. The room is dusty, small and reminds him of the room he had in the ship that brought him over. Old furniture, cracked and broken, that still looks relatively OK, and would definitely fool drunken guests in the night, surrounds the small wooden bed.

It takes him a while to wake up enough to start wondering where he is. It all comes back to him with a sudden, horrifying clarity. He launches himself out of bed, boiling a healthy scarlet as he notices his lack of clothing and remembers the reason why. He bends down and searches his clothes, breathes a sigh of relief as he finds everything there, wallet, pocket watch, silver lighter and his ticket of course, that reads Moulin Rouging in a coy, daring lettering. His wallet though, is empty and Sasuke curses. There was a lot in there.

He dresses quickly, thankful for the mirror in the room that, tough dusty, allows himself to spot the blotches of red lipstick on his shirt. He curses again, muffles them away, and makes to leave the room. He feels so self-conscious he almost faints. He thinks of his father again and shudders at the realisation that he's become what his dear Papa so fervently preached against.

More afraid of staying here, in the little room where someone would eventually find him, than facing whatever's behind that door, he walks out. The corridors are seemingly empty. A glance at his watch tells him it almost two a clock. He blushes again when he remembers that he was supposed to meet Mizuki, Suigetsu and Juugo for lunch. They're going to wonder where he was.

It takes him a while to get out of the maze of corridors and staircases. He can't remember how he got here in the first place. He meets people now and then, ladies with cleaning equipment and stone faces, no doubt they've seen it all before, men carrying heavy boxes who blamably ignore him, and guests like him, lost and ashamed and sometimes still glowing from the aftermath of that delicious night before.

They do exactly as he does, say nothing, look straight ahead, and try not to make it show that inside, you're so sick you feel like puking.

***

**Review pls!**


	2. Chapter 2

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_Moulin Rouge_

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'Here he comes fellas! A man fresh from his bed, but probably not his own!' Suigetsu bellows the minute he sees him coming.

For a second there Sasuke has the urge to turn and run. He does not want to deal with this in the morning, beautiful though it is. They're all so…_loud_. He keeps walking for the sole reason that he's hungry as hell, and what's on the table is positively mouth-watering. The men scoot aside as he walks over and Juugo pulls out a chair for him. He nods his a little, and flinches at the hurt is causes him. Thank god he's got his back to the bright sun right now, it would be hell on his eyes.

'So,' Suigetsu starts, and slaps him on the shoulder amiably while Sasuke tries to pour himself a glass of tee, spills, scowls. 'Tell me Sasuke, what was the little demon that got you in its bed? Kicking and screaming.'

He laughs out loud, evidently unbothered by hangovers, or those of other people. Sasuke scowls and starts buttering his bread. He refuses to accept what happened last night, and last evening. O god, how can alcohol make such beasts of respectable men. He looks around at the boisterous yelling and feeding, okay, respectable man…

'Don't be such a prude, I bet I already know just what your type is.'

Sasuke glares at him and sullenly refuses to speak, would rather choke himself on his croissant instead. Suigetsu leans backwards and his chair scrapes against the stone floor. The restaurant is busy, but their group is making the most noise by far. They occupy a long table by the windows, which are open to let some air in. The street sounds of Paris buzz in the background and the rapid French tongue is all around.

Suigetsu combs his fingers through his hair and takes a deep breath.

'Blonde probably, blue eyes, a sweet freckled face, little tan right…' Sasuke coughs, chokes on his croissant, for real now and blushes at how close to the truth Suigetsu really is. Then the shame turns to indignation. Suigetsu is now moulding a shape in the warm summer air.

'Tiny waist, big tits and a mouth like a hover!' He laughs again, superciliously indifferent to the surrounding customers, among them two local French ladies who eye him suspiciously.

He slaps Sasuke on the back again, harder than necessary, but it does the trick and Sasuke coughs up the piece of bread he was choking on. He thinks: Why does he even have lunch with these people? Why did he come to Paris at all? Was the need to escape his brother, his brother's shadow, that powerful? It better be, because if he can't sit through one meal with the people he calls his friends, then nothing remains of him. He'd be stranger, all alone it a city that threatens to swallow him whole.

He doesn't go in on their invitation for that night, which would be some more of what they did last time. Sasuke doesn't think he'd be able to stand the repetition. The Moulin Rouge was a dream, and that's all it should remain. Also, he's afraid that once he'll go through those golden doors again, and enter that devil's paradise, he won't be able to leave.

The moment he set foot in Paris, he could smell the opium in the air, and accompanying that, the smell of sweat, poverty and weakness of the flesh. He's not that confident , he doesn't trust himself to be strong enough to resists whatever's pulling. He was never a will to be reckoned with, not like his brother at least. Again, it's his father's voice in his head. '_You're weak. You'll never make anything of your life. May god bless your soul boy, because you need it most of all_.'

***

It's the next day and Sasuke, who almost drowned in misery, self-pity and loneliness the last evening when he refused to get drunk, laid and most likely, robbed, last night, finds himself in the market square, squinting in the bright sunlight. Place Maubert is filled with people and horses, carriages and merchants.

He looks around, feeling slightly lost. His French is not nearly good enough to make conversation with a local shopkeeper, but he feels obliged to at least try. He was never gifted at talking, in public, in privet, to friends, colleagues or his parents even. He just kept his mouth shut most of the time and prayed nobody asked his questions he couldn't answer with a simple 'yes' or 'no'. And if they did, he kept to short, polite responses. He was lucky people tended to interpret this horrible shyness as a form of deep, melancholic intelligence. The ladies in England all fawned over him and his dark, sorrowful eyes (he heard them say that once, by accident of course when he was being quiet in the room next to theirs).

But he's in Paris now, and the ladies are far away, across the channel. He's twenty years old, for god's sake, he has to start living! Not, that is, like that night at the Moulin Rouge, that's not living. What he wants is to visit all the houses of famous French writers, philosophers, and he wants to sit by the Seine and draw the other side. He wants to discover places. And when he's done with Paris, he'll go to Rome, Athens, maybe Istanbul if he's feeling adventurous.

'Regard ou tu-vas eh! C'est lourd, ce que j'ai ici! Espece d'imbicile touriste…'* A man, big enough to fill a doorway, yells at him when he bumps into his hairy chest and roughly awakes from his daze.

He'd been walking with his eyes glazed over and now he has to stop and look around. To his great relief he's not lost, but he finds himself trapped in a big mass of people that push him to the side. He allows himself to be shepherded into a line of people waiting for something. He looks past the impatient, waiting faces and realises it's the grocery shop, that has moved outside because of the fine weather. It takes up half the space in the street, but nobody seems to object.

He searches for some change in his pocket and decides that he'll just buy an apple. When he comes closer and closer to the vendor, he can see the veins in his neck bulge whenever he shouts something. It's a big man. Sasuke vaguely doubts the things he's heard about France before he left England, how French people are small and _petite_.

When it's his turns and he faces the vendor, something bumps into him again, no hairy-chested Frenchman, but someone slightly smaller than him with a mop of blond hair peeking out from under a shapeless, felt hat. The boy looks up. It takes Sasuke a while to recognise the face, but when he does the flush that creeps into his cheeks rivals the colour of the apples themselves.

Last time he saw those eyes, they were looking at him through a smoke filled corridor, surrounded by kohl-shadowed lids and luring on. Now they're wide in surprise. Recognition sparkles in their blue depths as well, but they lack the fear or the shame.

Instead, a sudden smile blooms on that face, and before he knows it he's pulled out of the line and onto the sheltered sidewalk behind the vegetable stall. The boy's still got an iron grip on his arm and Sasuke whips his head around frantically to see if anyone's watching. There's no need. They're practically invisible to the people on the street. No one pays any attention.

His eyes flash back to the boy in front of him, whom he feels he knows at once very personal, and not at all. He's dressed rather dull in shades of brown and black and white. Gone are the clothes that lit up his face and made him shimmer in the half-light whenever he moved. Sasuke wills himself to forget the picture, but the image burns on his retina.

Right now, in Paris sunshine, only his eyes seemed to have retained their initial brilliance. No amount of make-up can fake a shade of blue of that gorgeous. Under the eyes the mouth curls into a devilish smile. He raises his eyebrows questioningly, brings up a hand and pumps it in mid-air, a poignant gesture.

The image breaks, shatters. In front of him nothing but a common whore. A common whore with uncommon eyes. Sasuke feels like screaming and curses the eyes for ever having led him on. It's all a façade, all an illusion. Nothing is genuine.

He spins around and runs away, faster it seems, that his breath can cope with. Once he's in an small empty street he stops, rests his hands on his knees and spits on the ground. Catching his breath, he clutches his throbbing side and looks around furtively. It's residential street, small, a little grubby, but pretty in a very unique way now that it's sunlit and empty.

'What's your problem?' A voice sounds behind him in understandable English.

Sasuke startles and flinches violently. He thought he lost him. The boy's still there, tired as well, but not nearly as breathless as Sasuke is. He looks at him funny.

'Are you okay?' He asks and holds out an arm gingerly.

Sasuke steps out of reach and groans.

'Just leave me alone, you fucking whore.'

'Ah, voic-ci, la politesse est mort.'** He mutters, the least bit fazed by Sasuke's angry words.

'A no will suffice you know, usually.' He adds with a slightly haughty smile.

How he manages to look haughty, Sasuke will never know. He shakes his head and tries to stand straight. He's only just getting his breath back.

'I should have known you were one of those.' The boy continues.

'You got the look.' He laughs again, a little breathless and takes a step forwards.

Sasuke takes one backward, like they're doing some absurd dance, and now he's up against the wall and the boy is too close for comfort. He feels hot again, in the wrong places. He can't speak.

'Still though, beady little eyes ignored, I'd give you one.' And the moment he says it he reaches out his arms and tucks them inside Sasuke's jacket, around his waist, chest up against his and the way he looks up is unforgettable, cheeky and daring.

Sasuke shrieks and pushes him off forcibly. The boy stumbles backwards, having expected the outburst but there's still a smile on his face that, if Sasuke hadn't been so freaked out, would have concerned him. Right now, all he's thinking about is how things moved where they shouldn't have moved and how there's no excuse this time because he's not drunk. So he does what any confused, bothered, confronted twenty year-old would do: he legs it.

It takes him twelve blocks to realise his wallet's missing.

***

Naruto sniggers and suppresses the urge to skip. He feels a little guilty at having ripped off the same guy in two days, but his delight at all this easy money nullifies the unpleasant feeling. He laughs aloud and throws a coin high in the air so that it catches the sunlight and shimmers like a second one. Since he's already paid his lease two nights ago, when he met drunken Jiraiya in the hallway, all these lovely coins go directly to his savings.

He goes past another grocery shop, picks up what he needed and heads back to the Moulin Rouge, which by day, looks a lot less glamorous. He's an errand boy most of the time. He fixes the stage, the clothes (which he likes doing, in front of a fire in the winter, or in the courtyard by summer, surrounded by all the women and the homely gossip), does some shopping for the chefs, sells tickets, distributes posters, cleans the rooms. He's not a prostitute most of the time.

So why did he take it so personally, when that boy called him a whore? He's been called names plenty. More than he's ever been called by his real name. He's learned to let it slide of him like water. _Stupid English bigots_, he thinks. _When it's dark and they're drunk and rich, they're a real laugh, but approach one in daytime and he'll most likely hiss and cross his fingers at you_.

He waves at Kiba and Tenten who are playing a card-game in the ticket booth , they wave as he passes by. By day the Moulin Rouge is closed to customers and there's always someone by the gate to keep unwanted visitors out. It's really quite an important job. There's a surprising amount of people, drunks, addicts, general love-sick romantics, who insist on hanging out in front of the gate, living a half-life until night falls and the Moulin Rouge breaths back the life into them.

Today the steps are empty though. It's the good weather that discourages men to sit and mope. Under the bright sky everyone feels like taking chances.

Naruto crosses the sandy courtyard and smiles at the ladies who sit there sowing. It's a little strange, to have these sweet old women sow bright pieces of cloth back together to fix daring outfits and costumes that, anywhere else, you'd be afraid to show your mother. At the Moulin Rouge it's all part of life, it's a necessity, like water. The clothes are the magic, they are the illusion, and in the brothels of Paris, everyone depends on that illusion to hold fast, or else they'll pay for it with their life.

Naruto enters the large welcoming hall passing through the foyer. He climbs the big wooden stairs to the second floor, taking two steps at a time, and continues to climb the tall building with the smaller, narrower stairs, hidden from sight behind doors the same colour as the wall.

When he's in his room the first thing he does is take the money out of the wallet, and hides it under a loose floorboard. Then he gets up and enjoys the glow for a second. You'd never expect it, but Naruto takes enormous pleasure out of saving money. He likes to have something secret and growing, something that may offer a way out if ever he needs one.

Not that he has it in his mind to leave the Moulin Rouge. It is, first and foremost, his home. Regardless of the prostitutes and the shows, the vanity, the competition, the seediness of it all. He's always been welcomed here, if only because he's one of them.

He straightens his back and turns his attention to the empty wallet in his hands. Empty? A piece of white paper peeks out from what looks like a tear in the leather. Naruto sits down on his bed and plucks at the paper, which he fears won't come out unless he rips it.

Right at that time Jiraiya pushes open his door, nobody knocks on his floor.

'Cherry wants you.'

***

'Can I help you with something?' the Chinese girl asks him, squinting her eyes suspiciously.

A muscular boy, sitting wide legged on the bench next to her, turns his head.

'I need to see someone.' Sasuke says between clenched teeth and he heads for the big double doors.

'I don't thinks so sugar.' She answers at once and Sasuke stops abruptly when the boy, who was sitting next to her just now, appears in front of him.

He stares menacingly at him with two small black eyes, but Sasuke, looks over his shoulder and he can see the red lettering as beacon, inevitably drawing you eyes. He has to get in, but for some reason he has the feeling that every step to the side he'd make, would be mirrored by the man in front of him, and frankly, he doubts whether he has the stamina to get beat up by him and continue to the Moulin Rouge, crawling. The girl, dressed in a skin-tight, red Chinese dress, moves to the door opening, leans against the wall there and crosses her arms over her chest.

'She don't want to see you love.'

Her long-fingered hands move to light a long, black cigarette and she sucks on it from where it sticks to the side of her lips.

'You don't get it I-' _really need that wallet back. _He tries to explain, but her sweet voice cuts him off.

'I do, I really do. You think you're the first? We don't not open until seven, alright? That's when you can come.'

Sasuke opens his mouth and closes it again, like a fish, while shaking his head. They don't understand, he **needs** that wallet. It's a vital tom him as a heartbeat. The man in front of him makes a miniscule movement that suggest he'll fall on him if Sasuke doesn't take a step back, so he does and that's the beginning of his humiliating retreat. He's half-turned his back to the grinning pair, when the girl calls after him:

'Hey, you know it's all fake right? They don't really mean what they say…'

The boy sniggers, but Sasuke feels strange and numb. He looks up at the sky, where the sun makes the shadows small and sharp on the pavement. It's almost noon. Seven more hours until opening time. He will just have to come once more, to the Moulin Rouge, and pray it'll be the last time.

*** "Watch where you're going, this is heavy what I got here! Stupid tourist..."**

**** "Looks like politeness is dead." **


	3. Chapter 3

*

_Moulin Rouge_

*

It's dark again, later than Sasuke was willing to make it. He tagged along with Suigetsu and the boys again as they chose to roam from opium den to absinthe bar and now he regrets having chickened out of going alone. They're all drunk around him, but not as hammered as that first eventful night, which is to say that they practiced a lot at holding their liquor.

Even though he told himself at the start of the evening that he wasn't going to drink because he doesn't want to end up in someone's bed with his money missing in the morning (blushed with fury and sudden remembrance), he couldn't stand being around his friends completely sober.

He looks around at them and aches to asks that question: _when are we going? _But he's asked it about seven times already this evening, and he really doesn't want to seem that eager. He's got enough trouble as it is keeping Suigetsu at bay with his lecherous comments and inappropriate questions.

Finally, the latter jumps up though, a little woozy, almost falling down again for lack of balance, and shouts:

'That's it. Moulin Rouge!'

The gents roar in delight and starts gathering their coats and hats. Suigetsu looks for his cane, which apparently he bought the day before. Sasuke rolls his eyes, but he's anxious. He needs to get that wallet back. There's something… personal about it.

This night the lights of the Moulin Rouge seem to shine all the brighter, rivalling those pale, sickly excuses for stars in the sky. Down in the streets it's hot and noisier than it was in the day. There's nothing sleepy and tranquil about the avenues now. There's that familiar buzzing, the sense of living and laughing in the air.

Outside the heavy, double golden doors, there is, to Sasuke's surprise, a line that goes all the way to the next block. He fears for a moment they won't be able to get in. He doubts whether all those people would be able to fit.

Confident and arrogantly, pretentiously swimming his cane, Suigetsu moves up to the fronts door, consciously ignorant of the line and the pairs of menacing eyes threatening to set his coat on fire.

'Tenten, my darling. Mon amour!' He yells, loud enough for the entire street to hear how well connected he is.

The Chinese girl he recognises from that afternoon steps out of her little white and red booth. She glides his way and presses two kisses on either of his cheeks. Dressed in a shiny green, snakelike, Chinese dress she turns around and inspects their party. He eyes linger on Sasuke for a second, but then indifferently dismiss him.

She's placed at the door because of her big mouth that tends to get her into trouble with the customers inside. She is however, completely in charge of whoever enters, so appeasing the door bitch is what Suigetsu does.

'You are looking a dream tonight Tenten. It must be so tiresome, the way they show you off like this.'

Tenten, who's heard it all before, but remains slightly sensitive to such superfluous praise, waves them on and earns a groan for it from the fools in line, so her slanted brown eyes flash over and nobody dares utter another word.

The line doesn't continue on inside, so they're free to walk the corridor, through the foyer, to the ball room. Sasuke feels already familiar, and there is a childish giddiness in his heart which he refuses to admit. He chastises himself for it. He's here on a mission, let's not forget that. First and foremost, he has to find that little thief and get his wallet back.

As much as he repeats it in his head, like a mantra, the words are blown out of his mind as he enters the ball room, which has not lost any of its magic, its power. All of the dream is kept here, it seems, and it'll be here a hundred years from now, unchanged, equally powerful. It still knocks the breath out of his lungs and blinds his eyes with all the movement and colour. The room is even more packed than usual. There are more men, it seems. More nervous yelling and drinking.

Sasuke looks around and realises how incredibly futile it actually is to try and find a single person here. He'd have just as much luck trying to bump into him in the streets (on second thought, he might be just as lucky). The boys head over to the bar, order drinks, Sasuke declines.

He's got his eyes on the stage, because there's a stage now, right in the middle of where the dance floor is. He guesses that's why there was such a huge line outside. Suddenly the lights dims to a point where he can't see the others anymore. A collective gasp runs through the audience like some tremor though the back of a giant sleeping beast. All eyes are on the stage.

Then there's a light, bright as heaven in the smoky dark, and it shines on a balcony, illuminating all the smoke and sweaty faces. A booming voice fills all their ears.

'Ladies and Gentlemen! Lovers of the dramatic arts, friends whose lives I hold as dearly as my own…'

Sasuke, sober enough to be cynical, rolls his eyes.

'I am proud, to present to you, two ladies I'm sure you're all **dying **to meet. The talented flowers of the Moulin Rouge, who no doubt star in all your most intimate fantasies, performing on stage, for your eyes only: THE SPARKLING, THE MAGNIFICANT, DIAMOND DUO!!!!'

The crowd goes wild. One hundred voices shouting and screaming and two times a hundred hands clapping in the air and then the sigh when sweet delivery comes, in the form of a bare woman's leg and a figure hidden in feathers and drapes.

The music starts, swells, a hand joins the leg, an arm, graceful and mercilessly taunting. Then the music erupts in a way that rings in your ears when trumpets join, and drums and horns and flutes and any other instrument you can imagine.

A girl appears on stage, tall and beautiful, blond and grinning sweet seduction at all the men who stand first row and stare up at her as if she where some kind of goddess. The second one joins, no less adored, lovely and rosy, dressed in nothing but what looks like red lace and glitter.

And behind them, smiling from ear to ear, the person Sasuke was convinced he was going to have to look for in the darkest shadows of the smallest corners in the brothel; the person he was desperate to find and horribly afraid of finding. The one who had smiled at him through opium smoke, who had lured him away from everything he thought he wanted to be.

The show is on.

***

'Oh please Naruto, you have got to help out. You're the only one we've got!' Sakura, called Cherry by most of the crew, is almost on her knees in front of him, looking up through big, teary eyes the exact colour of the jade pearl earrings that lie in front of her vanity mirror. The pink and red peignoir she wears pools around her sweet, pale waist in a disorderly manner. Her hair is a crow's nest and her make up is runny.

Naruto takes a step back and bites his lips. It's criminal really, how much Sakura abuses those eyes on him. She knows she could get away with practically anything, would she stare at him like that for long enough.

'But, please, you're the only one who knows the moves, and you're the same size! I'm counting on you!' she pleads, desperately.

Naruto looks at the door longingly and regrets ever coming here. He also doubts the sincerity of her face. He loves her terribly, but she's a great actress, and not afraid of using that on even her dearest friends. She's not to blame though. The Moulin Rouge breeds actresses and liars, and it just happens to be that Sakura is a natural.

'Forget it Cherry. He hasn't got the guts. He'll suck men off in the dark, but a little dance in public and he's shaking in his boots.

Naruto glares at Ino's snide remark. She and Sakura are the stars. They are two of the singular most beautiful girls in the world, and nowhere in Paris will you find anyone with more ambition. It's a shame that Sakura's mom was an impoverished addict, and Ino's a common street hooker, otherwise they would have dazzled the modern world.

Now they just dazzle in the Moulin Rouge, which is enough, for now. At least people come to see them. They have their own shows, their own act. People know them, know of them. Ino, wearing a blue, Japanese dress robe with a motif of flowers, crane birds and fishes, comes to stand right in front of him. She's taller that he is, wearing heels, and the intoxicating cloud of her perfume washes over him.

'He's not fit for the stage.'

Her icy, blue eyes travel him up and down.

'He's ordinary.'

'Shut up Ino pig, he's better looking than Kiba, look at his eyes.' Sakura interjects from behind her, gesturing wildly to Naruto's face as she continues to inspect him like a horse on sale.

'Yeah, but Kiba has presence.' Ino replies and the two launch into a heated discussion.

Naruto feels a small tinge of relief as they switch their focus from him to each other. He stands back and tries not to lean against anything. The dressing room is a mess, a complete and utter catastrophe. It looks like a hurricane molested a pink ostrich and left it there to gather dust and glitter. It smells like perfume and dried flowers, which is not too bad, but the air is saturated with it. There are no windows in the room. It's lit by electric lights alone, rather modern for a dressing room, but Ino and Sakura insisted on it. (_How on earth can I look fuck-able, if I can't even manage to see my face straight? We need some light!)_

The arguing goes on for the better part of a minute, and Naruto tunes out. He sits back and watches. This is what the clients come to see. Sakura and Ino have a double act. Sometimes they're dancers, sometimes they're animals, sometimes they're royalty, but always they're fighting. The customers eat it up. There has to be something profoundly arousing about seeing these two babes dish it out on the dance floor…

In front of him both girls are already up in each other's space and Ino, taller than Sakura by an inch or two, is letting that count for as much as she can.

'Girls!'

Both of them turn round, annoyed and seemingly surprised at the sudden reminder that he was there in the room with them. Naruto looks at both of them, wonders why he does it, but takes a deep breath and says:

'I'll do it. But only for the same amount of money Kiba got.'

The girls burst out smiling and Sakura fastens herself around his neck rather forcibly with a squeal of delight, which makes Naruto smile as well as he holds her.

'Oh, thank you Naruto!'

She kisses him on the cheek, leaves a print probably, and goes to fluttering about the room again.

'The boots will be fine, but I don't know whether Kiba's jacket will fit you as well.'

Naruto blows up his chest in indignation.

'It's not like me and muscleman are that different you know. Half of what he's got is only padding anyway.'

Ino eyes him in scorn and lifts up a brow while she goes through the make-up box in search of powder that'll fit Naruto's colouring.

'You sound like a girl Naruto.'

***

A few minutes before their cue, Naruto doesn't feel so big. He's dressed in Kiba costume. How on earth that moron managed to slip and strain his ankle the day of the performance remains a mystery. It's true that Kiba is more heavily built than he is, but in terms of height they're not so far apart. The jacket, red, studded with sparkling buttons, sits loose around his shoulders. He's dressed like a cavalry officer, glamorized a bit. Ino and Sakura re two very scantily clad ladies, fighting for his attention. Along with the red vest, come tight blue pants and high, glossy black boots, which incidentally, Naruto does like.

They're not helping with the confidence issue though. He feels sweaty and faint. Sakura keeps squeezing his hand, but she's used to it already, the bugs in the pit of your stomach. Sakura blooms on stage. Naruto's about seventy-percent sure he's not going to fall on his face and wilt.

He's Kiba's understudy for the sole reason that he knows how to pull off the acrobatic stunt the boy does. He manages them fine when practicing alone, but in front of the hungry eyes of more than a hundred people, he's not so sure.

'Don't worry, they're gonna love you.' Ino grins, all hostility forgotten.

The moment of truth arrives, Jiraiya's voice, loud as doom on Naruto's shoulders, announces them. Naruto feels like puking, swallows and plasters a big, wide smile on his face that isn't bound to come off until next Christmas. The show must go on. Smile, wave, do a little dance, earn a fuckload of money and get it done.

The curtains draw, he hears the audience, feels their heartbeat as if it was one living thing. Then he's pulled in by Sakura and the music and, struck momentarily blind by the hot lights, starts the dance. He can't see a single face in the crowd, but it's there, undeniably. The warmth of their perspiring foreheads rises, their voices are deafening and the music he dances too is not so much there in his ears, as in his feet. He dances to vibrations and nerves, not a drum beat.

The dance is a sultry, vibrant tango, with Naruto dancing close and fast with Sakura, and then, when she pulls him off, with Ino. He twirls and spins and is twirled to dizzy duty by the girls and the dance is almost halfway done when he realises that he sort of likes it.

His acrobatic twists and somersaults earn him a couple of 'oooh's from the crowd, but mostly their attention is on the girls, who go from growling at each other, to dancing really close, to flirting with the audience. They are the attraction after all, he's their prop. He wonders how they do it.

It ends with some final throbbing beats and stops abruptly, and that's when Naruto notices how hard his heart is beating and how dry his mouth is. Naruto ends the act by dragging Sakura along by her hand and running his hands all over her curves as he nears the curtain. Ino pouts at the audience before huffing indignantly and pacing the stage. The men at her feet literally throw themselves in front of her. The petulant little princess is one of the best roles she plays.

Behind the curtain Naruto and Sakura disentangle. She checks the mirror and simultaneously shrugs out of her clothes, indifferent to Naruto's presence. She's breathing hard as well, but the show's not over for her. Not yet. Right before she goes up again, wearing a white dress this time, cut up in such a way that when she twirls it shows glimpses of her legs and thighs, Sakura turns to him, blows him a kiss and mouths thank you.

Then she slips through the heavy drapes and, muffled from where Naruto's standing, receives an ecstatic applause.

***

Backstage the corridors are small and badly lit but Naruto knows where to go by touch and memory. He makes his way easily enough through the dusty, wooden hallways, covered in posters and artwork of long-forgotten shows when the Moulin Rouge truly was a theatre, and not a brothel like it is today. The wood groans under his feet, but it has never failed anyone before. The polished surface is proof of decades of life. He imagines other feet might have walked here, high on the adrenaline, still breathing hard after countless of shows.

The corridors leads to a large common room, dark, musty but cool, where the props are kept, and most of the costumes. There are dressing room on either side of him, but he keeps walking and disappears through a door, leading to a small, narrow stairway. He descends into the golden glow of the lit room of the lower floor.

It's the kitchen, warm because of the roaring fire and filled with all the voices of what Naruto's learnt to call his family. They've made their own party here, where they aren't obliged to entertain, amuse, worry about the next catch…

He finds Kakashi, on a wooden bench against the wall, glass of liquor on the table in front of him. He's got the ever-present cigarette between his lips and his arm around a girl, Anko, whom, in another life, he might have married. In this life though, he stares in her eyes, deep, intimate, dreamily. He can't marry her.

Lee pushes him a bottle of wine in his hands and he takes a great big swig to quench the left-over nerves. Lee, who was a poor country boy once, and who, on the his first night in the Moulin Rouge, fell for Sakura so bad he stuck around. Lee, who's to ugly to be a whore, but who makes himself useful and takes on any job anyone feels like giving him. All so he can be around her at least, even though he can't _afford _her. _That's love_, Naruto thinks and pities him, _may god keep me from ever experiencing it. _

He gets drunk that night, high on the afterglow of what he did though it's not such a good idea. Early in the night, it can't have been after 1, Naruto gets called away. It's Tenten, who's been relieved of her shift as door bitch, one of those long cigarettes she smokes between her teeth, who tells him that Tsunade's looking for him.

Dim as he is Naruto can't imagine what about. Tsunade is the owner of the Moulin Rouge. She is mockingly called princess of the Moulin Rouge, and queen of the underworld, of all those who fell between the cracks. The theatre belonged to her grandparents and was bequeathed to her after they died. But even though she fought to keep it open, the competition was harsh, and nobody respectable came to her part of the city anymore. Nobody who could enjoy quality theatre would even show their face in these streets. So Tsunade adapted and dazzled. It turned out she was better at being a pimp and host than anything else.

Naruto meets her outside the door to one of the luxury balconies which are never really hired except by people who don't want to be seen, or wealthy folk who like their privet parties. Tsunade, dressed in a crème-coloured sparkling dress and engulfed by a coat with white feathers, waves him over and starts to fuss over his hair.

'Are you drunk Naruto? God your such a pest.'

He looks up at her through bleary eyes. She's supposed to be old, but her face is smooth and youthful. The peculiar light-brown eyes in her face are clear and focused.

'You did pretty great up there though. I'm proud of you. I doubt Kiba could have given such a show.'

Naruto rolls his eyes and grins. Kiba's never going to forgive him if he hears all this.

'You managed to catch someone's eye tonight. Wealthy man, Naruto… I'm counting on you.'

'Wait, what?' His intoxicated brain responds as it makes the click to late.

He's always been completely free about business like that. There are nights when doesn't mind, but most of the time he leaves the whoring to the whores. He is not prostitute, not full-time anyway. It's a way of making money, but only if there's no other way. It should never become something habitual.

'What do you mean?'

Tsunade sighs, licks her finger and smudges the black under his eyes. He pulls his head away and stares at her accusingly.

'This is a chance in a million, Naruto. It's Count Orochimaru, he's town for the weekend. Imagine what he could do for you.'

Orochimaru, that one person that he doesn't want to see tonight, and yet the only one he'll be forever indebted to. The only one he can't refuse. Naruto juts out his chin but in his mind he's already beginning to waver. He scowls and despises himself for his weakness. The injustice eats at him and burns his throat. His eyes are hot with sudden tears.

Then Tsunade does something she normally never does. She tilts up his chin and smiles at him with sad, bitter understanding. Her slender fingers pass over his lower lip and she sighs again, whispers in a husky voice:

'We don't have much choice Naruto. We do what is asked of us, that's all we ever do. It's not fair, and it's never pleasant, but it's our life.'

Naruto feels one stubborn tear escape his eyelid and he rubs at it furiously. She's right. She always is. He turns around, back against that dreaded door, behind which his false guardian angel waits. His eyes are on Tsunade for one last time and there is a desperate longing in his look that tugs at her. She hates it. She hates it but she's right. These are their lives.

***

The door opens soundlessly and the room behind it is only lit by the glow that comes from the ballroom. The balcony is huddled in shadows but for the light that reflects on the faded copper of the chairs. The red velvet is dull as well. Nobody comes here anymore, and yet he sits there, like a king. He turns on his throne and smiles a horrible smile at him, broad and pallid, bloodless lips. His eyes are a very light kind of brown, and they too look gray and colourless in his face.

'Naruto'. He whispers and the latter scowls at the intimacy in that voice.

_Who ever gave you permission to say my name like that? _A little voice in his head objects, but little voices are silenced and Naruto steps forwards like a good pet. The noise from down in the ballroom is strangely muffled. It seems the theatre was never quality and serves better as a brothel.

Orochimaru, who holds the deeds to the Moulin Rouge because he funded Tsunade once when she was in great debt, pads the chair next to him inviting him to sit down. Naruto curses Tsunade's unfortunate gambling habits that drove her to such desperation as to make a deal with this man. He hates to think of it as all her fault, but it is.

'It's been a long time. How are you?'

Naruto mutters _fine_, and it's ok because Orochimaru doesn't keep him for conversation. It means nothing to him. When he sits down on the edge of the red, velvet chair next to him, a possessive hand claims his knee immediately. It lies there confident and provoking. Naruto has learned a long time ago that it's best to let it lie there. Orochimaru turns to him and looks him in the eye with a sly, musing expression on his face.

'I care about you. I always have. Since the moment I saw you I knew that I could make you into something. You have potential. I saw it on your face.' at this point he drags a long, thin finger across his cheek and ends it on his lower lip.

'It's always nice to see that potential bloom in front of you.'

Naruto's parched throat starts hurting. He doesn't know why it's so different with Orochimaru. He's been with others, it's never personal. He endures it, and it's not a nuisance really. It's just business. Orochimaru however always manages to bring it to that personal level. He looks at him and makes him imagine that those peculiar brown eyes can see right through him. It uncanny, uncomfortable. Naruto fears the man. Fears what he'd be able to do, with all his money and all his might.

'Hey.' the man murmurs and his head is close, too close, it's invading.

Naruto feels like pulling his head back but a hand, white and pale like death grips him behind his ear and anchors itself in his hair. It hurts where he pulls and so Naruto bows his head to relieve the pressure. He scowls. He never usually stoops. He keeps himself high, always, and only rarely descends to perform for others, and if he does he always keep his chin up, eyes on his sky of principles. Now though, he's looking down and there's a humid voice in his ear that blows hot breath over the tender skin of his throat. He shivers.

He slides of the chair, and his knees hit the floor with a submissive, humiliating thumbs. He holds two bony knees under both his sweaty pals and hangs his head. Gets to work.

***


End file.
